


To Pick Your Pocket

by bittergreens



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, First Kiss, First Meetings, M/M, POV John Watson, Poetry, Sherlock Poetry Remix, Wits on Tap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 13:55:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3898816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittergreens/pseuds/bittergreens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sorry.” Sherlock admitted with a wry smile. “I deduce facts, I don’t read minds. Give me a minute to pick your pocket though, and I’ll know much more about you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Pick Your Pocket

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alexxphoenix42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexxphoenix42/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Love On a Real Train](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2068320) by [alexxphoenix42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexxphoenix42/pseuds/alexxphoenix42). 



> I wrote this poem for the 2015 Wits on Tap Sherlock Poetry Remix, which was put together by the lovely redscudery.
> 
> My poem is inspired by alexxphoenix42's delightful story, [Love on a Real Train](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2068320/), which tells the story of an alternate first meeting between John and Sherlock on a train. 
> 
> I hope you like it, my dear. <3
> 
> This was SO MUCH FUN to do- I say we make this poetry flash challenge a regular thing!

Pulled along the causeway in the rhythm of a dream,   
blue light of evening, dark streams of otherworldly shapes  
cast their fingers over us, flicker, pulse and creep. 

The light beats rapidly in and out, makes patterns   
on your face, across your mouth,   
crosshatches you with shadows. 

You sit beside me, utterly discordant  
with the ordinary world around you,  
sharp eyes, full mouth agleam, dark curls 

pushed off your forehead   
as you lean into the rush of wind  
from the cracked compartment window.

How can it be that my hands so briefly   
on your hips, lurch of your body into mine,  
can pull such fire from my dormant heart?

Just the scent of you—pine deep, rich,  
green as the moss on the bellies of old trees,  
makes my breathing shallow, makes me yearn 

to taste the patter of your pulse, feel  
your fingertips against my mouth, to see   
your hair so dark against my pillow.

I imagine how the light would look on you,   
how it would cling to every curve, pour   
into the hollow of your throat like resin.

What sweetness lies behind that smirking mouth?  
I imagine the taste of it—honey   
bright, holy, pure, and clear. Your hands 

on mine would wound me to the quick. Hot breath,   
lean suggestion of a shoulder, and then,   
pale fingers lifting, warm press of your mouth 

against my mouth. I am shocked to stillness,  
until I am not, until I’m pressing   
back against you, mouth opening, offering

warm tongue and hint of teeth, the blue  
of your gaze momentarily eclipsed   
by sliding eyelids, your breath stopped by mine.

I curl my fingers in your hair.   
This can’t be real—only dreams   
can light the shadows on your face like this.

I must be asleep, head   
against the cool pane of the window,   
and I will wake, alone in the compartment, 

nothing to keep me company   
save my own dull reflection,   
pale ghost in the glass.


End file.
